The Games We Play
by Virgo Writer
Summary: AU. Snow proposes an alternative after Haymitch's victory. One that will saved his family and damn himself to the most vile of professions: A Gamemaker.
1. The Law's of Thermodynamics

**The Games We Play**

**Summary:** AU. Snow proposes an alternative after Haymitch's victory. One that will save his family and damn himself to the most vile of professions: A Gamemaker.

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**A/N:** I had this idea and it didn't seem to have been done before. I'm hoping to have a series of one-shots in this universe, but for now here is an introduction of sorts.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own The Hunger Games. The lines that begin this one-shot are a paraphrase of C.P. Snow. According to wikiquote it's a humorous expression of the Laws of Thermodynamics. Take out the contractions and it becomes a sinister and accurate description of The Hunger Games.

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**The Games We Play - The Laws of Thermodynamics**

**_You must play the game. You cannot win. You cannot break even. You cannot quit the game._**

_The last thing he remembered was being on that cliff. Seeing the axe flying towards him, just barely missing its target. A part of him had taken a small amount of pride in the fact that it would have been a direct hit if the girl had remembered to correct for the eye he'd managed to gouge out moments earlier. The rest of him was too busy thinking of his next move._

_He stumbled forward. Watched as a smirk pulled onto the Career's lips, her thoughts clear in that cruel smile._

_She thought she'd won. That he was bowing to her victory._

_But then the axe can flying back over his head. Right back where it came from. The girl took a direct hit._

_And then it was over._

_For now._

He awoke in an empty hospital room reeking of blood and roses. And there was President Snow at his bedside, scrolling through the electronic medical file normally attached to the end of his bed.

"Oh good," the president said upon seeing him conscious. "They said you'd be waking soon. Though I admit I had my doubts."

He spoke plainly and casually, as though it were perfectly normal for him to sit vigil by a tributes bedside.  
_Victor,_ Haymitch reminded himself, his expression turning bitter for a moment.

President Snow continued, pointing out some detail on the medical file that Haymitch couldn't begin to understand. "Incredible isn't it. They had to remove your spleen," he said, pointing at a diagram of the human body on the screen. "And a section of your small intestines. And yet here you are, alive and well.

"All thanks to the Capital," he finished, his casual tone drooping to something sinister and threatening. His expression matched the dark tone of his voice – eyes like slits, snake-like lips curled back in a sneer revealing polished teeth.

_We saved your life,_ it seemed to say without words. _You owe us._

Haymitch mentally scoffed at the implication. He could have died in that arena. Along side the District 1 tribute that they had undoubtedly sent to kill him.

And then where would they be? Victorless and thoroughly unsatisfied by their blood sport.

Haymitch owed them nothing. He was alive because they needed him alive and for no other reason.

"That was rather clever what you did with the force field, Haymitch," President Snow went on. He returned to the more friendly tone he had begun with, his sneer shifting to some kind of facsimile smile. "You know I almost had it in my head to have you killed for that little stunt. Or your family.

"But that wouldn't be fair, would it?" he asked. The words would have almost been mistaken for pleasant if not for the sharp, clipped way that he finished the sentence. It wasn't a question so much as a threat. Snow was being _fair_, for now, but he could easily change his mind if things didn't go the way he wanted.

"I have a proposal for you, Mr Abernathy," he said formally, not giving Haymitch the chance to comment on the apparent generosity. "Due to some unfortunate circumstances I've suddenly found myself with a rather high demand for Gamemakers. If you remained here in the Capital you would receive all the necessary schooling and training, with the guarantee of an entry level position in Control at the end of your training."

"And my family?" Haymitch pressed, knowing better than the to leave such matters to question.

"Will be the family of a Victor," President Snow answered breezily. "They will be moved to the Victors housing and be provided with the standard Victors allowance."

The president's expression darkened as he stated the alternative with far less subtlety than you had earlier. "If you choose to return to District 12 instead then I will not be so kind, Mr Abernathy," he said darkly. "You are a Victor and the Games must have a Victor. But that protection does not extend to your family or loved ones. Or to your Mentor and the District 12 Team.

"You should consider them all guilty by association."

So that was his choice. Stay in the Capital and work for the Games. Spend the rest of his life as a Gamemaker finding new and, more importantly, entertaining ways to kill District children.

Or he could go back to District 12 and watch as Snow murdered everyone he cared for and everyone who been associated with his victory.

There would be blood on his hands either way. The question was simply one of whose blood he could stomach – the blood of hundreds innocent children or the blood of those he held dear.  
But Snow seemed to already know what choice he would make. The president stood up and placed the medical file on the edge of the bed.

"We'll make the announcement during your interview with Caesar Flickerman," the man said, his voice unequivocal. "The audience will like that."

And then he left without another word, replaced by a team of nurses and doctors that immediately began to fuss around Haymitch. Within moments he felt his body become heavy and the darkness overcome his vision.

It was the last time he ever slept without nightmares.


	2. The Prisoner's Dilemma

**The Games We Play**

**Summary:** AU. Snow proposes an alternative after Haymitch's victory. One that will save his family and damn himself to the most vile of professions: A Gamemaker.

**_You must play the game. You cannot win. You cannot break even. You cannot quit the game._**

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**A/N: **This ficlet takes place before Haymitch's Victory Tour and before he begins his schooling.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own The Hunger Games.

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**The Games We Play - The Prisoner's Dilemma**

The hob was loud and crowded, with noise coming from every direction. It wouldn't normally bother Haymitch – in fact he'd spent a fair share of his time in the hob before the Games – but now it was all just too much. The sounds and movement and the dank smell and humid atmosphere triggered memories of the arena, reminding him of the horrors he had faced there.

If he closed his eyes for a second too long he'd see the bright, deadly colours of a tropical rainforest and it was like he'd never left the arena.

Conroy didn't seem too bothered by the noise, or the crowd. Then again, his arena had been one of those urban outfits where they were placed in some long deserted ghost town. Silence was probably more of a bother to him than the hustle and bustle of the hob.

The two of them were seated at a makeshift table set up near Greasy Sae's, a bowl of her famous stew set out in front of each of them. Kyler Everdeen had been around earlier that day, so rumour had it that the mystery meat filling was rabbit, but Sae was known to use anything from dog meat to slices of protein cake. Meat wasn't easy to come by in District 12 and they made do with whatever was available.

Haymitch had hardly touched his dish while Conroy was already soaking up the dregs with one of the bread rolls they'd picked up from the baker on the way. He hadn't felt much like eating since his return from the arena, whether that be out of the habit of subsisting on the bare minimum, or the fear that his food would turn out to be as deadly as everything else.

"You never really leave the arena," his mentor said suddenly, the words corresponding with his own musings. Conroy wore a sad smile, his expression full of understanding and pity. "There's only one way out of The Games."

This was the reason why they'd come to the hob, in spite of the noise and the dankness and the way it made Haymitch's very skin crawl. With all the noise and movement and the precautions taken to stay under the radar of the local Peacekeeper, it was the safest place in the district to talk about Snow and the Games and the Deal that Haymitch had struck in an attempt to save his family.

"Don't for a second think that this is anything other than what it is," Conroy continued after a moment, his tone solemn. He'd taken up a bottle of Ripper's white liquor and was sipping it slowly. Not that Conroy was a habitual drinker – the heavy conversation simply seemed to call for alcohol. "This isn't a reward for your cleverness or some great honour bestowed on a poor Seam boy from the lowliest of districts.

"This is punishment," he said firmly, slamming the bottle of liquor hard on the table. The liquid spilled out of the top of the bottle, and the sharp smell of alcohol lingered in the air. Haymitch flinched involuntarily, the sound and smell triggering a different set of memories that had haunted him long before the Games.

"You're luckier than some, I suppose," Conroy continued, with a tilt of his head. That seemed to Haymitch a subjective judgment. As a mentor he could only be held responsible for the two children a year that were reaped from his district. As a Gamemaker he could be blamed for every death, not just those from District 12.

But Conroy wasn't finished and the life of a Victor turned out to be a whole lot grimmer than Haymitch had ever anticipated. It wasn't just being forced to Mentor the children of your district and having their blood stain your hands. Snow owned you from the moment you stepped out of that arena, and the president put his toys to work in satisfying friends and enemies alike.

"You're lucky," Conroy repeated, although the hard expression on his face said he only meant it in this one very specific respect. "The last thing that Snow wants is to give the impression that his Gamemakers can be bought and sold."

Neither of them said it aloud, but they were both clearly thinking the same thought. He was lucky that Snow didn't like to mix up his whores with his assassins.

"That wouldn't look very fair, would it," Haymitch answered him bitterly. He reached towards Conroy's bottle, looking to share his misery with a commiserate drink, but Conroy knocked his hand away and deliberately pushed the bottle off the edge of the table.

"This is not a solution," Conroy said sternly. "Not with your family history." His voice low and serious in the same way it was when he offered his one piece of advice for the arena: Stay Alive.

Haymitch scowled, more at being reminded of the man who had sired him than at being denied a stiff drink. "And what do you suggest?" he asked, practically sneering the words.

Conroy was indifferent to the show of disrespect. "I suggest you find a talent," he answered, with an unhelpful shrug. "Chess, maybe? Or perhaps whittling.

"Find something to distract yourself," Conroy advised sagely. "And when that doesn't work find something to ground you."

"And when that doesn't work?" Haymitch questioned.

Conroy smiled sadly. "You get good at pretending it does."

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**Notes:**

Because everyone has meaningful names (especially in District 12), I figured that Mr. Everdeen had to have a name that was somehow related to hunting. Hunter and Archer seemed too obvious, so I went with Kyler, which is a Danish name meaning archer. Conroy, is likewise meaningful, meaning "wise advisor".


	3. Sacrificing the Queen

**THE GAMES WE PLAY**

**Summary:** Snow proposes an alternative after Haymitch's victory. One that will save his family and damn himself to the most vile of professions: A Gamemaker.

_**You must play the game. You cannot win. You cannot break even. You cannot quit the game.**_

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**The Games We Play - Sacrificing the Queen**

**50 A.D.D – Summer**

Nessie was watching him with a sort of wariness and caution, like she wasn't quite sure what to do with him. It probably didn't help that he'd taken Conroy's advice about finding a talent and was currently surrounded by misshapen figurines and wood shavings. He'd been doing nothing else all week, completely silent as he whittled away at the wooden stakes until they resembled something grotesque and almost familiar.

She reached out a hand towards him, her movements slow and deliberate, approaching him in the same way you would a wounded animal. Like she was worried he might attack at any moment.

And maybe she was right to act so cautiously. Sander had tried to wake him a couple of days ago when he fell asleep on the couch. He'd been startled and disoriented, and his hand had immediately gone for some nearby weapon. Luckily the knife had slipped out of his grasp while he was asleep or he might have done his brother some real harm instead of just scaring the younger boy and his mother half to death.

"I'm busy, Nessie," he said before her hand could make contact, his voice completely void of emotion. She sighed with a mixture of resignation and aggravation, but brought her hand back to her own lap all the same.

She didn't leave, though. Just stayed there, sitting on the lounge chair and watching him as he works. Never seems to leave no matter how closed off he is or how often he pushes her away.

He knows that he's hurting her to be like that – so indifferent to her presence. He wishes it could be like it was before the Games when he and Nessie were so close and when he could tell her anything and know she'd understand. He wishes that were still true.

It feels like a lifetime ago: the time Before the Games. In truth it had only been a couple of months since he'd come back, but things had changed so much in such a short time. He'd been in the arena. He'd seen things and done things that he couldn't begin to explain to Nessie. Things he knows that she'll never be able to understand or forgive.

He'd been going with Nessie for about six months before the Games. They'd been young and in love in that way that teenagers were when they're young and impulsive and think every minor inconvenience is the end of the world. He'd known her his whole life and if not for his name being called at the Reaping, he probably would have ended up marrying Nessie in a couple of years once they both aged out of the Reaping bowls.

He isn't young like that any more. His experiences have aged him in a way that he can't seem to put into words no matter how hard he tries. He used to be so good with words.

It seems almost unfathomable given that he was only in there for a couple of weeks. But he knows he's different.

Suddenly their lives seem syncopated – out of step. Nessie is the same sweet, optimistic girl she was before the Games, but he isn't the same boy that went into that arena.

He's been hardened by the experience. More suspicious. Colder. Calculated. It's like something in there broke him and all he can do is try to hold the pieces in place, keep them from getting away from him. Like maybe having the pieces is enough – is all he can hope for – even if he can't manage to fit them back together the way that they used to be.

And he knows that all she wants to do is try to fix him. She doesn't realize that he's too broken to be fixed. That it takes every ounce of strength he has to stop her from seeing the cracks.

That's why he has to push her away.

He clung to the knowledge that he was only speeding them towards the inevitable. Nessie deserved better than a broken murderer and a Capitol assassin. She deserved someone that isn't so broken. Someone who wouldn't drag her down with the darkness and anger that seemed almost overwhelming at times.

"We should go out to the Town," Nessie suggested in a soft tone, still trying to bring him out of his bad mood. "You've hardly seen anyone since you got back. I'm sure Thomas and Mick –"

"No," he said in the same emotionless tone. "I don't want to see anyone."

Nessie frowned. "Why not, 'Mitch?" she asked sadly. "Your friends – "

"I said no, Nessie," he said, anger rising his voice. "I don't want to see anyone.

"I mean, what's the point?" he asked her. "I have to go back to the Capitol in a months time and I'll be there most of the year."

"I know that, Haymitch," Nessie answered him, her tone placating and impossibly patient and so much more than he deserves. "But that doesn't mean you stop being friends. I'm sure they'd love to spend time with you while you're still here."

Haymitch snorted derisively. His blank expression broke slightly to a smile that was neither happy nor kind. "Really?" he asked her, lifting his chin to send her a sardonic smile. "You really think they all want to spend time with a future Gamemaker?

"Of course, it'll be different in a few years time," he continued, droll and sarcastic. "It won't be so bad once their names are out of the Reaping bowl – along with their siblings. It will be different when they don't have a personal stake in it and when there's nobody for them to worry about.

"But after that it will be their children," he said, a bitter tone weighing in on his words, "and by then I might have made it to Head Gamemaker and we'll be the best of friends."

He watched Nessie flinch at his words, her expression growing despondent as he speaks. When he finishes, she's silent for a long while before finally looking him dead in the eye and asking, "What about me, Haymitch?"

"What?" he asked, feigning ignorance. He'd known Nessie almost his whole life, and he'd never needed her to elaborate to understand.

He knows what she's asking, just as she knows that he's intentionally cutting himself off from his old friends. It was likely that Conroy had done the same when he became District 12's only Victor over thirty years ago. No one ever came around to see the old mentor. Nessie was the village's only visitor.

He turned his head, averting his eyes from her sincere gaze. "My life is in the Capitol now," he told her. "It'll never work."

But Nessie isn't so easily thwarted, she pushes and pushes. It was never in her nature to give up, though he wishes it were. "We could make it work," Nessie pressed, sounding almost desperate. He could hear the tears in her voice, but didn't dare to bring his gaze back to her. Seeing her like that would only break his heart and he isn't sure it could take that much damage.

"It won't, Nessie," he replied, falling back to the even, blank tone he'd begun with. "It can't work.

"I'm sorry," he added.

Nessie just sobbed in reply, offering no further protests. She'd probably seen this coming. She had to have known that it would never work with him in the Capitol and her in the district. They'd only been delaying the inevitable.

She stepped closer to him, although he still refused to meet her gaze. With a quiet sigh of resignation, she bent forward and pressed her lips against his forehead. "I'll always love you, Haymitch," she said, barely containing another sob.

Then she had gone and Haymitch said nothing.

Because as much as it hurt to see her go, it would only hurt more to make her stay.


End file.
